Candyland
by wild and broken eyes
Summary: Candy - or Candace - has always known she's a little odd. She finally gets a reason why. A secret key that unlocks her bizarre world. The world that is so different. Candyland.
1. What is wrong with me?

It's the middle of fall and I'm sitting on the bus. As usual, it's horrible event that just gives me an opportunity to do math homework. The noise level is so loud I am almost crying, and it smells like a dead fish. To top it off, I'm freezing cold and the only one bothered by anything.

"Hey Candy, can you scoot over?" the girl next to me asks. I just nod and inch against the cold metal side of the bus. November isn't always this cold. I guess this is the exception.

I pull out my math book and begin my homework. We have homework every night, even though it's the weekend before Thanksgiving break.

"What's the date today?" I ask the same girl.

"The 22nd," she responds. I write it down on the line marked "date" next to my name.

Math has always been easy. The rules with numbers and signs always made sense to me. I'm a very literal person and I do follow the rules all the time.

I've finished my homework and have started next Monday's when the bus screeches to a stop in front of my stop.

"Have a good break, honey," the bus driver tells me as I get off.

"You too!" I yell over my shoulder. I don't have very many friends, just my next-door neighbor Samantha. And the bus driver.

When I think about it, I have always been weird. Not like other weird kids even, just very odd. I never had any friends and always kept to myself. Most of school has been easy, with my only difficulty being history. I have superhuman senses and seem easily bothered. Like I said, not normal.

When I get home, the first thing I do is run upstairs to my room. I've missed it since the summer spent in Gravity Falls with my aunt. It's nice to be home in a normal place. No weird anything, except for me.

* * *

"Candace," my mom says over the table. I always liked Candace, but Candy is a better name. It's my favorite food ever. I like Butterfingers and Starburst and Hershey's Kisses and gummy bears.

"Yes?" I take after my mom and dad in appearance. I have the same pale skin of my mom, quite the contrast to the deep tan of my dad, but I have his black hair and dark eyes. My mom says I used to have light brown hair like hers as a baby, but now it's black.

"We have an appointment at a doctor's office tomorrow. Your father and I have been talking, and it's time we figured out what's… wrong with you." She didn't pause because she didn't want to hurt my feelings. She paused because she was about to say "what's making you act retarded."

My pesky younger brother Kevin snorts. My not-so-pesky older sister Cassidy pokes him with her fork.

"Okay," I respond. But inside I keep hearing her words and thinking my own.

_What is wrong with me?_


	2. Testing, testing

The next day, Saturday, is spent at the doctor's office. It's not really a doctor's office; instead we're sitting in the waiting room of the local autism center. It's not very local either, seeing as it's an hour and twelve minutes away.

My chair is blue and very hard and covered in scratchy fabric. An air vent is directly above me, blowing cool air that smells funny and makes an annoying _fssssssssh _noise. One boy is standing up and pacing. He keeps on rattling the blinds covering the windows. It's yet another annoying noise. Then there's a little kid playing with some loud toy.

Everything seems louder and brighter and more real. It aggravates me to the point where I'm drumming my fingers on my legs as fast as humanely possible, but that doesn't help like it normally does.

"Candace," my mom hisses. "Stop." She goes back to tapping away on her phone.

I try, but it's the only thing I can do. Involuntarily, I rock back and forth while drumming. I can barely control myself now. I'm about to go ballistic.

"Candy!" Mom says in a stern voice. "Stop. Now."

"I can't," I tell her. Next to my mom, Dad places a hand on her arm.

"Linda," he warns. "Go easy on her. This is stressful."

Very. The lady eventually calls out my name.

I stand. My hands are shaking. Slowly, I walk over to the blurred glass door. Dad smiles and gives me a thumbs-up, while Mom never looks up.

A tall lady stands before me. She has light brown hair and a big smile. She extends a hand.

"I'm Dr. Fleming," she says through her smile. "Welcome to the Humphrey Autism Center! We're just going to run through some tests. It'll be about two hours, then lunch break, then three hours. Is that okay?"

I just nod.

"Great. We'll have fun though, right? Come along." She guides me to her office with a hand on my right shoulder, even though she's on my left side.

A few doors are open. I see a room with many balls and beanbag chairs and other odd stuff, a small cafeteria, and many offices. We get onto an elevator and ride to the third floor.

Dr. Fleming leads me into her office. She sits on one side of a small white table in a spinning white chair. Mine is just a green folding chair, like the ones we use on camping trips.

A few hours of answering questions pass by. After a quick lunch of cold pizza and lukewarm apple juice, we return. More questions. Then, she pulls out a gallon-sized Ziploc bag.

It's filled with battered Hot Wheels cars, a Barbie with a bad haircut and a Ken missing a hand and his clothes, some yarn, and a plastic trash can, plus other odds and ends.

"Play with these," she commands.

I take out Ken and wrap a tissue around him, then tie it on with the yarn.

"Why did you do that?" Dr. Fleming asks.

"Because he was naked," I state.

I line up the cars and stack some on top of the trashcan.

"Why did you do that?" Dr. Fleming asks again.

"Dunno," I mutter.

Eventually she gives up on the toys. She takes out black and white cube blocks with different patters, and then holds up a card.

"Make this pattern with those blocks."

I survey the blocks, and then arrange them with lightning speed. We do this a few times, then more questions.

Eventually, she walks me out.

"So? What's her problem?" Mom asks.

"I'm not sure yet," Dr. Fleming explains. "I'll get the results in by Monday and have you come back in."

Mom thanks her and leaves, with Dad and I in tow.

I'm happy, but also scared. I'll have a diagnosis. I'll no longer have to question my life. It's like being handed a key to unlock the doors of a lost kingdom of Candyland, but with the key just out of reach.


	3. Welcome to Candyland

**I'm sorry this is short. I'll make the next one longer. And thank you so much to everybody who reviews or reads this! I'm writing this for you guys :)**

* * *

Well. It's Sunday. I guess the results got in a little early, because now I know.

I'm not dying. I'm not doomed to a hopeless life of worthlessness.

I have Asperger's syndrome.

Most people have never experienced themselves or a loved one being diagnosed with something the average teenager – or adult – has never heard of. Well, I just was. And let me guarantee you, we're by far the loudest family here, back at the autism center.

I'm just sitting mutely in the same chair, absorbing the news. It's a little bit of a shock. Meanwhile, my dad is reading some pamphlets and pointing things out to me.

"What do you mean, there's no medication?" Mom shrieks.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Fleming apologizes. "It's just the way her brain's wired. If she had ADD or ADHD, then we could do something about it. Unfortunately, that isn't the case."

"Okay," Mom nods. "So, basically, she's autistic."

"No," she begins. I've heard her explain at least ten times that being on the autism spectrum doesn't make me autistic. Just like a color wheel, there's blue and purple and green and orange and red. There's room for every color.

My dad points to a page. "It says here that most kids with Asperger's have an above-average reading level. That explains the dictionaries you bring home."

I giggle. "They're not all dictionaries," I tell him.

This goes on for a while, with Mom asking questions and getting more flustered and my dad and I giggling about his jokes.

"Linda, honey," he eventually says, "why don't you and Candy go home? I can stay here."

My mom just nods and grabs my arm.

"I'll come get you later," she says.

She's silent for most of the ride. Then she speaks.

"I'm sorry I haven't been that nice over the years. Your grandmother always told me not to play with kids that she thinks of as weird. She never liked you. But… your aunt Lucy has it too."

"So, I never met her because your mom didn't like her."

"I guess. And, well, she's coming for Thanksgiving. Just, can we please not tell the relatives? At least, let me or Dad."

I nod.

"Thanks Candy," she says. Then, she smiles.

* * *

Later that day, I'm sitting in my room when Mom sticks her head in.

"Hey sweetie. I just got off the phone with your principal. I told her about your problem. We still have to set up something called an IEP, but for now, here's your new schedule." She hands me a slip of paper.

I scan it until I spot a difference.

"So, now I have homeroom, connection B, lunch, and last academic with…" I squint to make out the name. "Mrs. Green?"

"Yep." Mom sits on the edge of my bed. "It's not an actual special ed class. This one is specifically for kids with mild autism or Asperger's, maybe ADD. You'll go there right after orchestra and stay for math. Sounds good?"

I nod.

"Some kids stay in there for all academics. We still need to work some of it out, but I think this will be it for now. There are only six other students. You start next week when you go back to school."

I nod and let the rest of the world fade away as I sink back into my book.


End file.
